


Sonic Sounds

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, First Time, Harry Gets Very Wet, Humiliation, M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Toys, Sexual Inexperience, The X Factor Era, Toothbrush As A Vibrator, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-07 18:15:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20821682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "Harry takes a deep breath, suitably embarrassed, “I’m just really...” and he can’t say the obvious. He can’t just say really wet."Harry loves feeling embarrassed. Louis is happy to help.





	Sonic Sounds

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a rogue tweet about someone using an electric toothbrush on Harry. 
> 
> Thank you Terran @vondrostes for help with the title, you saved this from being called Oral B Baby.

Outside Harry’s bedroom door, the X Factor house is loud and alive. Inside, where he’s hiding away from the others, he can hear himself breathe. The unoccupied bed beside him lays unmade. Clothes are scattered across the floor and cascading down from the washing baskets. Harry had excused himself from the crowded lounge almost half an hour ago, patting Niall on the shoulder as he skipped up the stairs, his face a practiced calm. Nobody had raised an eyebrow at his early bedtime.

They’d spent the day in boot camp with the other contestants  _ attempting  _ to learn basic choreography. Privately, Harry had anticipated being at least halfway decent. Five minutes in, it was clear that he was abysmal. Nonetheless, he’d tried his best. He’d tried all day, and worked himself into an uncomfortable aching sweat doing so. He’d watched some of the other contestants take to it instantly and memorise the short routine and do it  _ well,  _ but however hard he concentrated, the rhythm in his mind just didn’t match that in his feet and arms. 

The low-level sniggering had begun almost instantly. As he was mentally counting through the steps and plotting the movements of his feet, he heard an unmistakable giggle. Harry had caught Liam and Louis in the act, greeting them with a whine of protest before dropping down onto the floor beside them where they were hiding at the edge of the room. “Why can’t I do it?” Harry had pouted, toeing off his trainers to rub his feet back to life. Liam had apologised while still laughing, and Louis had fluffed Harry’s hair while explaining just  _ how  _ funny Harry had looked out there. “None of us can do it,” Louis reassured him - “you just look particularly daft trying.” 

Once they’d arrived back at the house after their disastrous day of dance rehearsals, the boys had piled onto the sofas around the TV in the lounge, passing a large bowl of popcorn between themselves. Harry had tried to keep up with their conversation but he was exhausted and soon found himself zoning out, picking stray kernels from between his teeth with his tongue. Before long, discussion had turned to their day and their apparent shared lack of  _ any  _ dancing ability and what it would mean for the band going forward. How they could ever  _ really  _ be a boyband if they couldn’t do something so simple. It was the kind of thing that rattled them. Harry had woken up from his daydream then, ears burning. 

“Maybe we could take lessons,” Liam had suggested. “Proper lessons, not for X Factor, just for us. It might help.” 

“Did you see him?” Zayn had said, nudging Liam’s arm to get his attention while nodding his head towards Harry. “We’re beyond help.”

They’d all started laughing at that. Harry’s stomach had soared. The tension brought about by thoughts of their future had broken and all concerns regarding the band’s impending doom had been quashed beneath the sound of Niall’s cackle and Louis’ fit of giggles. Harry had joined in, always the first to poke fun at himself. And really, they were right, he  _ was  _ awful. Niall hadn’t been much better and Zayn could barely keep up, but they weren’t laughing at them. They were laughing at Harry. Loud and full and unashamed. Each time they each caught their breath they were reminded of Harry’s clumsy movements and awkward attempts to make his feet behave and descended back into whooping rounds of laughter. Other contestants had begun to notice them and join in, not sure exactly what they were laughing at but keen to relieve some tension of their own. And Harry kept up - kept up with the laughter and the jibes - because he could take it. His cheeks were hot, almost painful as they stretched into an uncontrollable smile. He fought to keep his eyes open and watch them all. 

Eventually the wild energy they’d created had petered out, Louis rubbing the corners of his eyes where they’d begun to stream and Liam holding his cramped stomach. They’d all taken deep breaths and moved on. The other contestants had gone back to their own business and Niall had chosen something for them to watch on TV, the hilarity of Harry quickly forgotten. 

Harry had made it through twenty minutes of Niall’s chosen nature documentary before he had to leave, the faces of his bandmates doubled over in hysterics at something he’d done swimming before his eyes. Laughing with him _ .  _ Laughing  _ at  _ him. When he’d closed his bedroom door behind himself, he’d taken the first deep breath in what felt like hours as he climbed into bed.

-

A harsh line of warm light glows beneath Harry’s bedroom door where the wood rests on the plush carpet beneath. He pulls the bed covers up tight around his shoulders and burrows into the soft comfort. He can still hear them in the lounge below. He can’t differentiate between voices at this distance, but the low rumble of noise sounds like laughter. He rationalises that it’s probably at the expense of someone else, now. They’ve probably not spoken about Harry since he left. It’s not like they’re  _ still  _ laughing at him. He shuts his eyes, a heavy weight settling deep inside his inner ear and flowing down to his neck and jaw. His stomach clenches and he draws up his muscles tightly, his dick jumping against his leg. Fuck. He  _ loves _ to be laughed at. 

He loves it in the worst way. He loves it in a way he absolutely  _ cannot  _ talk about, and sometimes can’t even  _ think _ about. He doesn’t know when he realised that he loves to be made fun of, and to cringe away from biting comments and jokes, he just knows that it gets him hard. Every. Single. Time. He plays it off sometimes. He tells himself that it’s only nice and warm and tingly when it’s someone he’s friends with. Someone with his best interests at heart who’d never go  _ too  _ far, just gently picking at him and getting a rise of laughter. He tells himself that’s why he likes it when the boys joke around with him. That’s why he’s spent half of the day hard and uncomfortable in his boxers, hiding the truth in the waistband of his baggy joggers. But that’s  _ not  _ it. He’s lying to himself and he knows it, and the truth is sharper and scarier but it makes him even harder. He doesn’t want it to be nice. He doesn’t want to be in on the joke. He doesn’t want to laugh along. He wants to be the butt of someone’s joke. Another boy’s joke. A  _ man’s  _ joke. 

It’s hotter than it needs to be beneath the duvet. He snuggles deep down, leaving only his head poking out for air. He’d take the covers off and lay unguarded on the mattress but he needs to feel something on top of him. He needs the weight. His skin tingles like an exposed nerve, but under the covers he’s swaddled and warm. Under the covers he can concentrate on the incessant throbbing in his dick. 

He takes off his shirt, shuffling and stretching out of it while still keeping himself covered, careful not to dislodge the duvet and send it tumbling to the floor. He’d thought the bed covers were warm and familiar, but the second his shirt’s off and the soft fabric touches the feverish bare skin of his chest his nipples clench and pebble and he has to hold back a moan. He burrows down further, disappearing almost entirely into the delicious comfort as his naked torso writhes against the sheets. And he’s getting greedy. He wants more. He wants to feel everything. He pauses, debating whether or not to take his joggers off. While his joggers are on, he rationalises, he isn’t wanking at the memory of being laughed at by his friends. He isn’t touching himself while thinking about a faceless man’s mocking jeer. But he needs to feel something against the skin of his legs and the cotton of his joggers isn’t new enough, isn’t soft enough, doesn’t feel  _ quite _ good enough. He’s had them on for so long he can’t even really feel them anymore, they’re just  _ there,  _ around his legs holding him together. 

Harry’s fingers are almost numb as he hooks them into the waistband of his joggers and begins to shuffle them down his legs, resigned to what he’s about to do. He thrashes from side to side to help them on their way, and once they’re bunched beneath the duvet at the bottom of the bed the relief is instant. His dick throbs ominously as pleasure licks up his skin. He rubs his legs together like he’s trying to start a fire, the soft friction at once too much and not enough. He wants to roll onto his stomach and fuck the mattress until he’s messy and ruined; he wants to hold the duvet around himself tighter than he can bear, so tight that he can barely breathe, and he wants to arch into the softness and rut up into it; he wants  _ something.  _ He needs  _ anything.  _ His hands are balled into achy fists by his sides and he doesn’t mean to but he’s bucking his hips, his dick sliding from side to side inside his boxers where he’s damp and tacky. 

He snaps his head back against his pillow, his neck bared and jaw set. His entire body is rigid. He’s holding himself tense as though he’s on the edge, but on the edge of  _ what _ . He’s barely started but he’s taut and he’s embarrassed and his dick is harder than he ever remembers it being. Around the roller blind at his window a piercing square of waning daylight fights through, a humiliating reminder that it’s still early evening. It’s not yet fully dark, and it’s far too incriminatingly early to be cocooned in his own sweat rutting against his sheets like this. 

Harry’s purposely unclenching his teeth when the landing light floods the room and Louis walks in, his shirt off and balled in a fist in his hand, his electric toothbrush vibrating in his mouth. Harry freezes, his entire body pulsing with shock and adrenaline. He can’t move, his breath catching in his throat. He shudders, forcing himself to look at Louis. Harry doesn’t feel it when his dick spits out a lick of precome, but he feels the wetness seep into his boxers. 

“What you doing?” Louis grunts around his toothbrush, barely looking at Harry as he throws his assumedly dirty shirt into Harry’s washing basket and makes his way through to the bedroom’s ensuite. 

Harry swallows the near mouthful of saliva he’s apparently been holding and un-sticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Napping.” It comes out hoarse as though he’s just woken up and maybe Louis will believe him. Only it’s  _ Louis  _ and he’s too perceptive for that. He’s too tuned in to what people are saying and the way they’re saying it, and what they really  _ mean  _ when they lie, and they bluff, and they tell you they’re napping and not fighting the urge to wank and loving the battle. 

Louis spits into the sink loudly and comes back into the bedroom, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and leaving a small smear of toothpaste by his jaw. He sits beside Harry on the bed and gives him a look. Harry can feel the heat of him as he closes in. “No you’re not,” Louis says, his eyes narrowing into a maniacal glare, “you’re wanking.” 

Harry feels the heavy pressure of a moan bubble in his throat and he fights it back down the way he would the urge to cry. And in this moment, embarrassed and hard and leaking into his own boxers it feels just like that, like he wants to cry. Like he’s got a sharp lump in his throat that he needs to swallow but he  _ can’t  _ and it would be easier to just let himself cry, to let the vice around his throat work its way up and out of his mouth like a wracking sob. 

Louis interprets Harry’s troubled silence as confirmation. 

“You are...” he breathes. Louis looks excited. He looks like he’s just overheard his friend call the teacher Mum. Like he’s just been told  _ the  _ juiciest bit of gossip, and he’s mentally cycling through all the ways this new information is going to come in handy. He looks like he’s about to take the piss out of Harry. 

Harry consciously relaxes his shoulders, “I’m not wanking.” When he unclenches his hands beneath the duvet they’re wet with sweat. He brings them up and out of the covers and into the comparatively cold air of the room and holds them up to Louis as proof, wiggling his fingers. “See.” 

Louis looks as though he’s going to believe him for a moment, Harry’s face the picture of innocence despite the way his hair is plastered to his forehead and his cheeks are flushed scarlet. Louis shrugs, looking down into his lap and passing his toothbrush from one hand to the other. Harry can feel the way the mattress beneath him dips slightly under Louis’ weight and he wants to roll over towards him, nuzzle his face into the side of Louis’ thigh and hump down into the bed.

Louis looks back to Harry, meeting his eye but not comfortably. “Sorry. I just thought…” Louis trails off. There’s something not right about his facial expression, like he’s training his features into what he thinks is blank ambivalence, but he’s missing it. His eyebrows are raised as though in challenge and suddenly Harry knows Louis doesn’t believe him. Knows he’s been caught out. 

Louis shuffles a hand beneath himself where he’s sitting, grasping quickly as though he’s adjusting his joggers or itching his leg. He looks to Harry’s red face and then down momentarily to the thick mountain of duvet above Harry’s crotch, where Harry’s dick lays fat and wet beneath. This time when Louis’ eyes meet Harry’s they’re wide and wild. 

Louis stands like a shot, and he’s got a handful of Harry’s duvet. Harry sees it and knows what’s coming. He feels the cold air rush in. Louis whoops loudly and rips the duvet up and off Harry, throwing it to the floor. Goosebumps ripple up the planes of Harry’s skin and his dick jumps in reaction as he attempts to fold in on himself. It’s obviously a  _ joke _ . Louis is clearly just fucking about. He couldn’t have known… 

Harry’s eyes rush to Louis’ face, expecting to find an expression of horror or discomfort at seeing Harry so almost naked, but Louis isn’t looking at Harry. Not his face anyway. Louis stands fixed, staring almost slack jawed at Harry’s crotch. Harry panics, looking down at himself to mirror what Louis is seeing. In the centre of Harry's white boxers, right where the thick line of his dick rests below the softness of his hips and stomach, there’s a wet patch the size of a fist, the dark shadow of his pubic hair almost visible through it.

“Wait-” Harry begins, scrabbling to cover himself. 

“Fucking hell, Harry.” 

Harry sits up, reaching for the duvet at the foot of the bed but Louis toes it further away. Harry flops back down against the mattress, defeated. 

“Thought you weren’t wanking,” Louis teases, tapping Harry’s nearest shoulder in disbelief. His voice is almost a whisper, “looks like you’ve already come in your pants.”

It’s too much. Louis is  _ touching  _ him and his dick’s right there, and Louis is going to run downstairs and tell  _ fucking everyone  _ that Harry’s been sneaking off to go and wank while they’re all watching TV. Harry’s face is hot and he can hear the thud of his pulse in his ears, “I wasn’t.” Harry takes a deep breath, suitably embarrassed, “I’m just really...” and he can’t say the obvious. He can’t just say  _ really wet.  _

“Very fucking hard,” Louis finishes for him, not quite what Harry imagined but still accurate, and Louis is still so quiet that Harry struggles to make out the words. Louis reaches out, extending his arm curiously until one finger hovers over Harry’s bulge, just centimetres from where he wants Louis the most. Harry aches, desperate to arch into it, but he daren’t. Louis bridges the gap, running the pad of his finger across the tip of Harry’s dick through his boxers, “and apparently soaking wet.” 

Harry whines, pressing up shamelessly into Louis’ touch, unable to help himself. “Oh God-” Harry’s boxers are pulled taut where his hips kant up into the pressure of Louis finger, the line of his dick obvious against the pearlescent dampness of the fabric. It’s like looking through frosted glass, the edge of Harry’s dick head  _ just  _ visible. “What’re you-” 

Louis presses down against him more firmly. Their eyes are both joined on the point where he’s touching Harry’s dick, neither of them moving. Harry’s holding his breath, still not sure what Louis is doing until he presses  _ again _ , runs his finger along the ridge of Harry’s dick. Harry arches further and they’re still both looking. Looking  _ right  _ at him. They both see it when Harry pulses and a heavy drop of wetness bubbles almost imperceptibly through the white fabric where it’s pulled taut over the end of him.

“Oh my god,” Harry breathes, mortified, hiding his flushed face behind his hands, unsure if he’ll ever come out again. He’s waiting for Louis to panic and bolt from the room. Waiting for the sound of his retreating footsteps. When he peeks from between his fingers, Louis is still very much present, sitting beside Harry with both hands back in his lap, a grin across his face. 

“Unbelievable…” Louis marvels and there’s a hint of laughter in it. “How are you  _ that  _ sensitive?” 

Harry doesn’t dare tell him that he’s not  _ always  _ this bad. That he wouldn’t be like this if he wasn’t unbearably embarrassed. That he wouldn’t be like this if it wasn’t another  _ man  _ that had found him.

Louis shifts awkwardly where he’s sitting. Harry peers down at him and finds his fist white where it’s wrapped tightly around his toothbrush, his face is serious and there’s a sheen of sweat on his upper lip. Harry tenses, clenching the muscles in his stomach. He shudders as dick throbs, groaning when his hole tightens at the feeling. He feels the squeeze of it deep in his gut. Harry’s not touched himself in hours, and at this point it  _ must  _ be hours. He feels like Louis has been in the room for hours anyway, can’t remember a point where Louis wasn’t sitting beside him staring at the wet slide of his dick in his pants. 

Louis coughs, barely clearing his throat. He resumes passing the toothbrush back from one hand to the other, his eyes never leaving Harry’s crotch. He takes a moment, visibly thinking. Then Louis stills, holding the toothbrush surely in one hand as he meets Harry’s eye. 

“I bet you’d let me,” he whispers almost to himself, now bringing his toothbrush to rest beside Harry on the bed. It’s still wet from Louis’ mouth and it marks the sheet.

Harry doesn’t know what he means, but he would, he’d let him. He’d let him do anything and he’d thank him for it. He’s reaching the point of discomfort and if Louis isn’t going to touch him he needs to leave and let Harry do it himself before he goes  _ mad  _ with it. 

“Will you?” Louis presses. His voice is still quiet in the near silence of the room, but he doesn’t sound as uncertain as he did before. 

Harry’s clenching and unclenching his hands, rubbing his clammy fingers along his palms. “What?” Harry’s voice is parched. 

Louis adjusts himself again, trying to get comfortable. “Let me try something. Would you let me?” 

“What do you mean?” Harry feels almost delirious, so desperate for relief that he doesn’t  _ care  _ what Louis means.

“I just want to try something out. We can stop. I just wanna have a go.” Louis takes a sharp breath before continuing, “I want to see what happens.” 

“Yes,” Harry pants. “Yeah, you can.” Of course he can. It’s something. It’s the promise of something to take away the weight that’s resting upon them, making their limbs heavy and their breaths deep and movements slow. Louis can do whatever he wants. 

Louis draws a breath as he reaches over with his toothbrush and gently lays the still-wet brush head on the shaft of Harry’s dick through his boxers. Harry’s breaths are coming in loud drags and he needs to stretch out, needs to press himself outwards as far as he can reach to give himself room to feel the pressure of Louis against him. 

“Can I?” Louis asks, voice firmer now he’s made contact. 

Harry nods, his head snapping so wildly he can feel his chin against his chest. “Yes. Yeah-” His legs are rigid, straight out with a foot in each bottom corner of the bed. His arms are splayed wide. Louis is barely touching him, their bodies only brushing each other where Harry’s hand rests beside Louis’ leg. If Harry reaches out with a finger he can stroke his knee. 

Louis drags the head of his toothbrush cautiously up Harry’s dick until it rests at the head. Harry can barely feel anything but the sharp pressure of the brush, almost hot with stimulation, but imagines the feeling of the individual bristles, prickling through his boxers and scratching against his dick. Louis is clearly trying to hold his arm steady against him but every so often he twitches, the jump of it running up his forearm and jostling the toothbrush against Harry. Harry whimpers, his bottom lip trembling. 

Louis’ breath catches at the sound and he looks to Harry, who gives a sharp nod. 

Harry doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t know why Louis’s touching him like this and why he’d ever want to. He doesn’t know why he isn’t worried about the fact that a soggy plastic brush that’s just been in swilled around in Louis’ mouth is now pressing against the underside of his dick. He doesn’t  _ care _ . He doesn’t mind when the residual toothpaste on the brush sends a rush of menthol heat to the tender skin of his dick. He’s not bothered. It doesn’t matter because it’s inconsequential. It’s  _ nothing  _ when Louis is holding it against him like that. There’s an invisible bubble around Louis’ hand and his toothbrush and Harry’s dick and he can’t think of anything outside it. It doesn’t exist. 

Louis fumbles slightly as he adjusts his grip on the handle, pressing his finger to the “on” switch. He swallows. 

The toothbrush screams into life against Harry. He knew when Louis first held it against him, probably even before that, that this is what was going to happen. But it couldn’t prepare him for the almost painful surge of pleasure radiating from where the brush is vibrating mercilessly against his dick. “Louis. Louis, God-” Harry rasps, almost panicking at the feeling. 

He knows he has to stay still. Knows that if he scrambles around and knocks Louis off, he’s knocking the whole thing off kilter and it means the end of this, and the end of the delicious heat that’s whirring into his skin. He locks up his legs, clenches his toes and breathes through his nose in heavy bursts. 

Louis wets his lips with the end of his tongue, nodding. All he says is, “yeah.” His whole attention is focused on where he’s driving Harry mad. He readjusts the toothbrush in his hand where it’s slipped until he’s holding it almost like a wand. He trails the vibrating pad around the head of Harry’s dick, aiming for a smooth drag but jerking in excitement. 

He begins to slowly maneuver the vibrating brush head lower, passing it clumsily over Harry’s shaft before it’s dipping down, down, and tickling Harry's balls with vibrations. The fabric of his boxers is dry there, still crisp white and fluffy cotton in contrast to the patchy area around his dick head. Louis is barely touching him with the toothbrush but the almost-there pressure of it against his balls is too much for him to tolerate like this, all open and easy, and he snaps his legs closed, his knees knocking into each other. He straightens his legs back out, fighting to take it and to keep Louis on him, and he crosses them at the ankle. As Harry arches off the bed, his balls disappear down between his crossed legs, but Louis chases him greedily with the tip of the brush, dipping it between Harry’s thighs and vibrating the soft pocket of skin he’s made there. 

“Louis, fuck,” Harry whimpers, his legs entwining tighter still. His balls are tight, he’s sweating freely across his chest, and his heels are digging into the mattress beneath him. “Louis-” it comes out as a long whine. He yells as Louis holds the brush against him, long past moaning now. His throat tightens and it turns into the edge of a wail and he’s panting now. He presses his hands firmly down into the mattress and scrunches his eyes. 

“I’m barely touching you,” Louis breathes, as the toothbrush dances over Harry’s balls. “Unreal,” he says, sounding as thrilled as he is surprised.

Louis persists, rubbing circles into the soft swell between Harry’s thighs. The wet transparency of Harry’s boxers is seeping its way down the fabric, the head of his dick now flushed and raw where it’s trapped beneath the damp layer. He can feel himself leaking when Louis presses down slightly and as the moisture slides down the length of his dick and into his pubic hair he shudders into the feeling of Louis. 

“Jesus Harry... What’s it like?” Louis sounds awed.

He couldn’t describe it if he tried. Harry can’t keep still, almost rabbiting his hips up into the vibrations at the end of Louis’ arm. “Too much,” Harry chokes.

“Wait,” Louis pauses, “bad?” His voice sounds panicked but he doesn’t move a bit. 

“No,” Harry manages. “It’s good,” his expression’s cycling from pleasurable bliss to agony. “So fucking… good,” Harry yelps as Louis dives the toothbrush further between his crossed legs in one long reach feeding it further through until the head is whirring against the sensitive skin between Harry’s balls and his hole. 

“What-” he sobs. “Louis!” He’s baring his neck in a stiff column as he tries to weather the stimulation. 

“Look how wet you’re getting though,” Louis breathes. And Harry wants to. He wants to look at himself. To see how embarrassed he’ll have to be about this later. How deep and stirring the nausea will be when he remembers how wet and sticky he got when Louis used his homemade vibrator on him. He looks down. His boxers are soaked and beneath the cloudy haze of cotton his dick is burning red and visibly leaking.

“Louis, Lou. God, Lou,” Harry’s chanting, rocking his hips from side to side, barely holding back a whimper.

Louis groans right along with him, “you’re drenched, Haz,” and Harry can’t breathe. He can’t take the nickname, the  _ words  _ he’s using, the  _ way _ Louis’ knowingly pressing the toothbrush in surging pulses against the vulnerable skin behind Harry’s balls. 

The air is still and the entire room smells like Harry. His sweat, the sharp tang of his pre come. Louis looks down at his face, contorted and overwhelmed. Harry’s more desperate than he knows how to handle. That is until Louis opens his mouth. 

“Imagine if I told the boys,” Louis begins, the hand that’s not vibrated numb and sweating around his toothbrush coming to rest gently on the inside of Harry’s extended forearm. “About how you were wanking,” Harry yelps in protest but Louis continues, “and you  _ were  _ wanking. What if I told them about how fucking  _ wet _ you get,” Louis stops. “If I told them about how much you like this.” He takes a deep breath, meeting Harry’s eye and holding it. “How embarrassing,” he scoffs. 

And Louis can’t know. He can’t  _ possibly _ know, because at the best of times Harry isn’t even sure  _ he  _ really knows what’s going on in his head, but Louis’ right. It is embarrassing. He’s just letting Louis do this to him, and it’s dirty and it’s messy and it’s strange, and Harry’s thrashing against the bed now, his dick aching where it lays ignored, dribbling openly. His balls are tight against his body and Louis isn’t stopping. 

“Don’t stop, don’t stop Lou, please. Please don’t stop. Don’t fucking stop.” 

Harry groans and the noise sounds like one of pain. He grinds up into his wet boxers sloppily, managing three, four, five thursts before the hot vibrations are sinking deep into his balls, up through his stomach and settling across his chest and down his arms and he’s coming. He’s coming harder than he  _ ever _ does on his own, and he’s not even wanking. Louis tenses as he notices Harry's orgasm, his hand jolting the toothbrush, and the movement pushes Harry further and he’s still pulsing, pushing the white wetness into the slick space between his already-tacky skin and his boxers. His pubic hair is matted with it and he thrashes against Louis’ arm, sweaty fingers grappling against his skin as Harry’s body glows. 

As he comes down it’s instantly too much. Harry squirms, whimpering quietly and Louis takes the toothbrush away, turning it off with his other hand, the first clearly too numb to function. He drags the now stationary brush head up Harry’s softening dick, resting it finally in the pool of Harry’s come that’s soaked the material. 

“You can keep it if you want,” Louis breathes, not meeting Harry’s eye. "The toothbrush." 

Harry flushes, his dick more sensitive than even  _ he’s  _ comfortable with. “Don’t worry about it,” and he doesn’t have the raging full-body rush of shame he thought he’d have, but it’s close. It’s a warm flushed embarrassment that he can handle for the moment, the dregs of his orgasm buoying him through it. 

Louis chokes on the edge of a laugh. “I’ll probably change the head,” he mumbles.

Harry trails his hands up his arms, folding them across himself for comfort. Now he’s come, the room feels chilly. “Yeah, probably a good idea.” 

“Might swap this one with Niall’s” Louis smirks, and for some reason Harry resents the joke, or at least the implication of the joke, because if the roles were reversed and  _ Harry’s  _ toothbrush head was soaked with  _ Louis’  _ come, it wouldn’t be a punishment to have to suck it clean. Louis pauses, his face serious, “or I might keep it.” Harry moans softly at the idea.

Louis stands shakily from the bed, and instantly Harry sees the obvious way he’s tenting his joggers. Harry can almost see the shape of it. His hands itch and he clenches them to keep them occupied, hold them down and away from Louis’ very present dick. He wants to look away. Doesn’t want to get caught looking if that’s  _ not  _ the way this is going to progress, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the heavy bulge just centimetres away from his face. 

Louis braces himself with his hands on his hips, breathing heavily and visibly sweaty. He takes a breath, and continues, his voice far-away and quiet, “God, if Zayn and the others could see you like this.” Harry’s dick twitches in the mess inside his boxers. Louis is right. Zayn would be the worst. He’s the most sarcastic. He’d have the  _ best  _ jokes about Harry to spread around the house. 

“What if they saw what a mess you are,” and as Louis speaks he’s pushing his joggers beneath the swell of his arse, coming to rest on his thighs. Harry can smell him almost instantly, the familiar heady scent of pre come filling his senses as he jolts at the realisation that it’s not his own for once. He feels dizzy. Louis isn’t wearing boxers, and Harry’s face is slack in submission as Louis maneuvers to stand right above Harry’s crotch. “Fuck Harry, I’m gunna tell them.” 

Louis reaches down to touch himself, wrapping a sweaty hand around his flushed dick. Harry can clearly hear the wet snap of it as Louis thrusts into his own fist, his rhythmic grunts filling the gaps. “Fuck, Haz,” he moans, his hand speeding up. “Let them all know what you’re like… What a mess you are” Then Louis groans deeply and he comes, hot drops splashing down onto the existing wetness around Harry’s dick. Harry can feel it sinking through the fine holes in the cotton and straight onto his almost chapped skin and it’s searing hot against him, the two pools of come mingling together and keeping him wet, not giving him the chance to dry. 

The second Louis catches his breath he pulls his joggers back up, ignoring the comical wet slap against his stomach as he does so. “I’m not really,” he rushes out, “I won’t tell them, Haz” he says firmly. He looks panicked and wild and Harry believes him. 

“I know, Lou,” Harry reassures him. “Honestly,” his voice is soft and he’s still glowing with joy at the feeling of another boy’s come wetting between his legs.

Louis smiles, wiping his hands on his joggers before looking to the door, “They’ll wanna know where I’ve been. I’m not gunna tell them.”

“Just say you were checking on me.”

“Yeah,” Louis offers, letting the word hang

“Don’t feel guilty,” Harry insists. "Or weird." 

“I’m not,” he says defensively. "I don't. Promise,” and he’s leaving. Harry can hear the sound of his socked feet on the landing, just making out the thud of each step as Louis descends the stairs, back into the lounge to face the questioning faces of the rest of the band. 

Harry imagines him telling them everything. Each and every detail. His body hums excitedly at the thought.    
  
  



End file.
